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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26486383">of linen napkins and open windows</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/radishit/pseuds/radishit'>radishit</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Strange the Dreamer Series - Laini Taylor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, No Beta We Die Like Men? More Like No Beta I Don't Have Friends, Pre-Canon, aHAAHAHaHaHA I JUST REALIzED THE aBbREVIATION FOR STrANGE tHE dREAMEr IS STD akahLAHAHAHAHAHA, fuck time zones who needs them, here have this monstrosity, i put a couple of little things in there to drive you all insane, i took some liberties with the logic because i dont have a copy of either of the books so, jk i know you poor things are starved for fan content, no but like actually i did this in one day so dont expect quality at all, pre canon because i hate all of you, too many tags im sorry, woah i cant write dialogue apparently, youll be fine if you can handle canon and my potty mouth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 11:02:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,226</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26486383</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/radishit/pseuds/radishit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Ruza likes to leave his window open.</p><p>Miles away, a golden-haired man runs his hand across the spine of a book.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Thyon Nero/Ruza</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>of linen napkins and open windows</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>                The laughter of a boy, likely no more than eight, pierces the morning air. Ruza puts his hand outside and lets an iridescent beetle land on his finger, its shell glinting in the dawn's light.</p><p> </p><p>                “It’s early,” his mother says with a ghost of a smile, brushing the creature with her finger, and her son offers a grin.</p><p> </p><p>_____</p><p> </p><p>                Somewhere in Zosma, a young Thyon Nero slams his bedroom window down, crushing the small insect that’s been sitting on the sill.</p><p> </p><p>                He tries his best to ignore the hand print that burns his reflection’s face.</p><p> </p><p>_______________</p><p> </p><p>                Ruza taps his fingers on the edge of his desk. He’s ten now. He doesn’t like school, but he doesn’t dislike it either. The teacher's words fill the room, although whether he's absorbed any of the information is debatable. It's not that he's not interested; he really is, but these days, time seems to stretch, contort, and lengthen in any way it can. He hums to himself, counts the tiles on the ceiling, tries to telepathically communicate with the kid next to him, and such. He tells himself he really should be paying attention and listens with half an ear. The teacher looks up from her lesson.</p><p> </p><p>                “Any questions?”</p><p> </p><p>                Ruza straightens. He likes this part of class, at least. He gets to talk, and he’s always enjoyed other people.</p><p> </p><p>                “How did they know?” he inquires, with genuine curiosity.</p><p> </p><p>                “How did they know what?”</p><p> </p><p>                “The world. How did they know it was spinning?” A few soft giggles ripple through the room. The teacher gives him a bit of a look.</p><p> </p><p>                “Well, they could tell because the sun made their-“ she trails off, and slowly lifts a hand, as if hesitating to grab something in front of her. After a moment, she continues, speaking in a voice that isn’t hers.</p><p> </p><p>                “Before the citadel, when the sun was free to shine where it pleased, people’s shadows changed with the time of day.”</p><p> </p><p>                Ruza spends the rest of class imagining a world where shadows dance on sunlit ground. A world where if you tilt your head back there’s a sky and clouds to tell a story. A world without the citadel’s shadow cast on it, without the constant reminder of years before.</p><p> </p><p>                He makes sure to say thank you to his teacher when he leaves.</p><p> </p><p>_____</p><p> </p><p>                Thyon squints, running his hand across the cluttered yet organized desk, searching for the correct-</p><p> </p><p>                He lets out a soft hiss when the pocketknife lying to the left nicks his finger. Red begins to pool, the color of the wine he's not supposed to have seen. That was an accident. A mistake. Thyon Nero does not make mistakes.</p><p> </p><p>                No. Thyon Nero is not allowed to make mistakes.</p><p> </p><p>                Brows creased, he squeezes his fingertip and tries to stop the bleeding.</p><p> </p><p>                “Nero!”</p><p> </p><p>                The man’s voice rings through the room. Thyon raises his head.</p><p> </p><p>                “Yes?” His wording is polite, as is his tone, but somehow, he makes it sound as if he’s looking down on a figure twice his height.</p><p> </p><p>                “Answer the problem.”</p><p> </p><p>                The boy’s eyes land on some scribbles on the board.</p><p> </p><p>                “Iron boils at 2861 °C, melts at 1536 °C, likely the tenth most abundant element in this universe, forms two major series of chemical compounds- Sir, why are we going over this again? I do believe it was already taught. Would you like me to continue?”</p><p> </p><p>                The metallic taste of blood on his tongue, he ignores the looks the others give him.</p><p> </p><p>_______________</p><p> </p><p>                The sickness brushes its numb, shaking fingers across Ruza’s face, but leaves the thirteen-year-old alone. His parents catch the worst of it, what with both of them working near the sick bay. He’s told to stay with his aunt and uncle until they get better.</p><p> </p><p>                He moves in, dressed in black.</p><p> </p><p>_____</p><p> </p><p>                In Zosma, Thyon finds that it is rather impossible to accurately describe the sound an adult man’s top-of-the-line leather shoe makes when its heel hits the wall of a palace at maximum force, a hand width away from a person’s head.</p><p> </p><p>_______________</p><p> </p><p>                Ruza laughs and sticks his head out the window, mirth spilling out and adding to the sounds in the street. The noises are thrown together at different volumes, angles, and times. You could call it a cacophony or you could call it music. The city’s custom orchestra, in a sense. The days are warmer, and the air smells like it’s ripening. It’s the late afternoon, and the sun is peeking out from under the citadel, allowing lucky ones to savor it. The light glints off the colored glass vases on the stand across the street, casting rainbows on the walls. There are girls in dresses like a sunrise, and boys that make Ruza unsure of what to say. Children with stick swords making friends with bugs, and parents who need a break. Vendors line the streets, each with a different food, and he knows he’ll look back on today in a couple of years and smile. Summers are sweeter when you’re fifteen, Ruza decides. Swinging his legs over the windowsill, he joins the world outside.</p><p> </p><p>                “And where do you think you’re going young man?” his aunt asks, good-naturedly.</p><p> </p><p>                He grins. “I’m heading out. It’s not too often we get days like this.”</p><p> </p><p>                His aunt has never told him, but seeing Ruza smile reminds her of when there was still a sun. It also makes her wish she had appreciated her brother more, while she still could. She watches his ghost in her nephew’s face every day.</p><p> </p><p>                “Alright, if you must. Ah, the youth of today. Spend your time and bargain with it while you still can.”</p><p> </p><p>                “Why, my beautiful aunt, you say that as if you aren’t young!” he says in a dramatic manner, eyes wide. She chuckles and gives him a small smile.</p><p> </p><p>                “Now, don’t think you’ll get away too easily. I’m rather curious as to what you think doors are for?” She raises one eyebrow and points to the window.</p><p> </p><p>                “For squishing fingers, of course,” Ruza replies solemnly. “I’ll be back before it’s too dark.”</p><p> </p><p>                He runs off and eventually tracks down a good number of his friends, and together they come up with enough ridiculous ideas to fill their entire evening. They eat enough food to keep them full for the next week, and then come back for more. None of them will admit it, but it’s likely they’ve spent all the money they had on them when they left. Somebody dares somebody else to climb something somewhere (“I bet miles away there’s a girl who can climb a building seven times that size!” “Yeah, and I bet miles away there’s a girl in jail.” “Tzara could do it.” “Damn right, she could.”) and Ruza leaves to compete with a friend at another children’s game.</p><p> </p><p>                “Do you think people in other places see the same sky we do?” Whoever’s next to him is probably tipsy, although Ruza can’t for the life of him think of when that could have happened as he’s certain he hasn’t seen any alcohol and has been with the other for the entire evening. Concluding that he probably doesn’t want the answer, he exhales and looks up at the bottom of the citadel.</p><p> </p><p>                “I wouldn’t know. What sky do we see?” His companion laughs.</p><p> </p><p>                “Sunset, then. Do you think they see the same sunset?”</p><p> </p><p>                He doesn’t know it yet, but Ruza is going to remember those words for the rest of his life.</p><p> </p><p>He’ll think of then when he first lays eyes on a bitter, golden man, and he’ll think of them again when a friend he hasn’t made yet turns a color he was raised to hate.</p><p> </p><p>He’ll think of them when a woman with half a name does the unimaginable but only when sand is on the ground.</p><p> </p><p>And he’ll think of them when he sits shoulder to shoulder with a beautiful man whom he will meet twice on a familiar ship he’s never seen.</p><p> </p><p> And they’ll cross his mind at the strangest moments with the perfect timing.</p><p> </p><p>But for now, he’s fifteen in the city of Weep, and the air smells like summer.</p><p> </p><p>“I think it depends. In other worlds, their sky could be different colors, and so could their sun. They might have two suns- or three,” he smiles at nothing in particular. “But maybe once, if it’s just right, two people see the same sunset.”</p><p> </p><p>_____</p><p> </p><p>                Thyon lifts his eyes from his desk to see where the noise is coming from. He can make out the faint sound of music, and against every thought in his head, he steps over to the window. He usually keeps it shut, but the afternoon temperature had been too much to handle. Somebody is singing in the street.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>“Zosma’s falling, Zosma’s falling,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>If it lasts, we’ll paint a picture.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The poor stay poor and the rich get richer,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The world still turns and the queen get sicker-“</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>                And the window’s shut. It’s not that he dislikes the song (although he does), it’s more that he’s been up for the past three days and does not have the patience to deal with much of anything. And all his scars, new and old are burning for reasons unknown.</p><p> </p><p>              Thyon Nero, with all his eloquent language cannot possibly put into words how much anger he feels right now, and he also cannot possibly put into words why he’s angry at all. More people than he cares to count would kill to be him if they could.</p><p> </p><p>              Who wouldn’t want to be him?</p><p> </p><p>              <em>Who wouldn’t want to be him?</em></p><p> </p><p>              Thyon spends the next portion of his evening trying to come up with reasons why his life is one to be envied. But make no mistake, it’s certainly not counting his blessings.</p><p> </p><p>               With every one he thinks of, he feels like he’s pulled on a string of some tapestry of lies, and he somehow feels obligated to try and weave it back together.</p><p> </p><p>              He doesn’t cry.</p><p> </p><p>              At least not where his father can see him.</p><p> </p><p>               He thinks until dusk turns to dawn. He thinks about whoever’s outside at this time. He thinks about how none of them are him, and then, for that reason, stops thinking about them. He tries to think about when his father told him he loved him, and then tells himself it’s impossible to miss something that doesn’t exist. He wonders if emeralds are heavier to juggle than gold, and then realizes of course they aren’t. He really needs sleep, doesn’t he? He thinks about how finding shapes in clouds is like making temporary constellations. He almost tries not to think about alchemy, but due to his general lack of imagination, that’s what everything comes back to. He momentarily thinks about going downstairs and requesting tea, which he knows helps with headaches. It’s not like anyone there could say no. He tells himself the reason he doesn’t is because he’s above asking for help, but it’s probably because he doesn’t have the energy to go outside his room.</p><p> </p><p>              Hours later, he opens the window a crack and whispers good night to a person who doesn’t exist.<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>__________</p><p> </p><p>                “Shit,” is what Ruza says with a laugh after tripping into the mud, running ahead of his friends.</p><p> </p><p>                “Shit,” is what he says after he realizes that the vendor from lunch didn’t give him enough change.</p><p> </p><p>                “Shit,” is the word used when his fingers slip and he drops a plate.</p><p> </p><p>                “Shit,” is what he mutters under his breath when he’s late.</p><p> </p><p>                “Shit,” is what he almost says when he almost confesses to a guy that he almost thinks he almost likes.</p><p> </p><p>_____</p><p> </p><p>                “Shit,” is the nickname Thyon’s father has for him.</p><p> </p><p>__________</p><p> </p><p>              Ruza used to wonder how what little rain they had could hit the ground if the citadel was there. Then he realized that rain somehow going through the blue floating palace of indestructible metal that had been home to the magical gods of shades of cerulean, sapphire, navy, and more that destroyed his city and somehow managed to eat its name was probably the least confusing part.</p><p> </p><p>_____</p><p> </p><p>              Thyon remembers once, when he was younger, he was taught how to predict the weather by looking at the sky. He had argued that if he was an alchemist, then decorated cloud-gazing served no purpose.</p><p> </p><p>He’s always liked the stars better anyways.</p><p> </p><p>__________</p><p> </p><p>              Ruza’s favorite part of day is the sunset. Because of the citadel, it’s hard to see the sun any other time of day.</p><p> </p><p>              Sometimes, he wonders what the sky would look like without anything hanging over the city, and other times he thinks it lets him appreciate color more.</p><p> </p><p>              Sometimes he watches the sunrise, but it’s hard to wake up that early and he lives on the west side of Weep. So, he stares toward the horizon, forearms resting on his windowsill until the sky fades to black.</p><p> </p><p>_____</p><p> </p><p>               In Zosma, Thyon peers out the window before going to sleep. It strikes him that the sky can be so many colors at once, and then opens his eyes a tad wider upon realizing that he noticed.</p><p> </p><p>              Without knowing why, he opens his window to let the night in, and gives a small shiver when the cool air hits him.</p><p> </p><p>              It’s strange, he thinks, how even though he feels so cold, the world seems warmer.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>im editing the end notes because there was way too much self-deprecation<br/>so anywho, this is my first fic, art is more my thing, sorry if it's not super great<br/>and also what the fuck is a time zone<br/>noT IN tHIs uNIVeRSe<br/>shhh just let me have my ending ok-</p><p>also wHAT tHE fUCk Is fORmATTing I dOTN knOW HELp mE OuT HERE<br/>also also that poem thing is my sad 4am brain child i was running on way too little sleep when i wrote it oops</p><p>TEMPORARILY LOCKED FOR NON REGISTERED USERS BECAUSE MY FRIENDS ARE TRYING TO FIND MY ACCOUNT<br/>UPDATE: IT DIDNT WORK I HATE IT HERE</p><p>UPDATE 2: NOW UNLOCKED BECAUSE 1) IT DIDNT DO SHIT AND 2) THEY ARE MAKING AO3 ACCOUNTS WHICH TERRIFIES ME</p></blockquote></div></div>
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